From A Survivor
by Ananke
Summary: Admiral Janeway's thoughts before her mission in Endgame. Spoilers. J, C, C/7


Title: From A Survivor  
Disclaimer: All characters owned by Paramount Studios. No copyright  
infringement intended.  
Summary: Admiral Janeway's thoughts before her mission in Endgame. Spoilers.  
This was a monster demanding to be written.   
*  
My ready room remains my sanctum, the one place I can generally escape the  
public without neglecting  
duty-or, at the very least, neglect duty in private.   
  
Only problem is, they don't call these Admiral's haunts ready rooms, and this  
one isn't exactly Voyager's.  
It's a command closet...but Voyager's...that one had memories. It had a  
thousand living holoprogrammes  
bursting into life any given day, and a few in particular linger.  
  
Seven, for instance. I'm sure the number of confrontations I had with our  
resident former Borg in  
Voyager's ready room doesn't bear counting, but the last...the very last...is  
as vivid as the actual event.  
We were a decade into our journey, and Seven was still slowly working herself  
into our dubious niche of  
humanity...ring finger first.   
  
She and Chakotay had been married less than a month, and I frankly didn't care  
to speak to either of  
them alone for at least another. Starship captains do indeed get jealous. They  
just don't like showing it,  
or admitting it, until all is said and done and it doesn't matter anymore.   
  
Both of them are dead. Who can I hurt?  
  
Seven came to me early in the shift that morning, report in one implant-ridden  
hand, the other clenched  
behind her back. She had developed the habit when in my presence, hiding that  
ring. I felt brief  
annoyance...crewmen simply shouldn't fall to feeling pressured into hiding  
things away from the captain,  
however sensitive the hiding is. I forced myself to speak, evenly, amiably.  
"Coffee, Seven? Harry  
introduced a new blend to me..."  
  
She shook her head, slowly, gingerly sitting.   
  
I couldn't help but smile, albeit humorlessly. "You still haven't gotten used  
to your humanity, have you?"  
  
The eyes were calm, the unhindered brow lifting. "I suppose not."  
  
"However the hell do you manage those spirit quests, then?" Even attempting to  
visualize Seven in  
Chakotay's favored meditative position was...well, quite amusing.   
  
Her smile was tight, false. "I do not meditate. I believe attempting to end the  
existence of one spirit  
guide is enough. Do not tell Commander Torres of this, of course. I understand  
that she desires as little  
likeness to me as possible."  
  
"Seven." I hated myself, then, for letting the unease show, for putting that  
emptiness in her voice, the  
expectation of scorn, of shunning. "Don't be absurd. We are your family."  
  
"Yes." Quiet, thoughtful, the remark barely passed my ears. "As was the Borg  
Collective." Then, catching  
my gaze, she inclined her head. "Chakotay and I will be parents. We intend to  
honor you as namesake."  
  
"I am honored, then."  
  
"No." Echo again, no inflection. "You are not, but your saying so is  
admirable." And she left, with no look  
back.  
  
I could've called her back, I suppose, but the alienation would only have  
turned to outright chill, and I  
didn't feel up to dealing with it. I needed Seven at her best that day, and  
chose to leave it be. Chakotay  
apparently picked up on her mood, however, and decided otherwise.  
  
"Just who do you think you are?"  
  
I turned from the viewport as he entered...only moments later...meeting the  
gaze of my subject of  
reflection. His eyes were dark, burning, lips tightened into thin anger. "I'm  
afraid you've lost me,  
Chakotay." Damn deliberately too. What now? Hadn't the earlier gauntlet run  
been enough?   
  
"Oh, I did." Soft, lashing, the voice cut through the room. "And for once I  
can't say I'm especially sorry for  
it."  
  
"This is about Seven."   
  
"No. This is about you."  
  
"Chakotay, what else do you want me to do? I married you to her. I work  
alongside you every day and I  
haven't forsaken her either, though God only knows getting through the walls  
she's thrown up can, at  
times, be a great deal like grinding teeth..."  
  
"I'm your friend, Kathryn. I've known a few people who would've been grateful  
for less than that."  
  
"She's jealous?" Maybe the last word did come out a hiss, but what did he  
expect? After coffee, I could've  
dealt with this. After a few of Tom's jokes to ease the mood, I could've  
handled it. No coffee, no jokes.  
Just flat out mule-headed confrontation. He'd just have to handle it.  
  
"I wouldn't put it that way. A little stressed. She's pregnant..."  
  
"So she mentioned." I cut in. "And frankly, I'm a little appalled at the  
timing. I can't chastise you for the  
relationship, she is non-Starfleet and, by all definitions, a self-sufficient  
adult, but I can and will point out  
that trial runs are recommended before forging permanent bonds. I realize  
you've been married a while  
now and hope to have children, but it's a bit reckless at this point. I'm not  
convinced Seven is settled into  
the relationship yet and Voyager certainly isn't in an easy stretch of space at  
the present time. This is a  
warship, Commander, and lately it's more war than ship. We all have to consider  
that."  
  
He ignored the lecture. "She's pregnant, and you know that means certain  
sacrifices on the part of the  
rest of us. B'Elanna's empathetic enough to leave her alone, why can't the  
captain?"  
  
I suppose anyone else would've been two steps from the brig after that one, but  
it's testament that I was  
nowhere nearly immune to him as I'd have liked that Chakotay stayed put,  
frowning down like one of  
those imperturbable native legends of his. I merely clamped my retort back,  
moderating my tones  
instead. "I apologize if Seven, or you, Commander, feel that I've done  
something-don't bother to tell me  
details-to stress her. Your wife is my astrometrics officer. I am her captain.  
As second-in-command, you  
know very well that requires some degree of contact daily. I can't control the  
rigors of service any more  
than Seven can control any...paranoia...her hormones might be causing."  
  
His lips quirked, grudgingly enough, I'm sure. "Don't tell her that."  
  
"I'm sure Tom would be willing to empathize with you on the hazards of marriage  
and pregnant spouses."  
  
"Not on pregnant former Borg spouses. Even Paris is staying clear of her bad  
side." He sat, hands  
absently passing through his hair. "I'm sorry I barged in like that, Kathryn."  
  
"Just don't do it again, Commander." Somehow, though, the sharpness dwindled  
into tiredness. "And  
since you are here, we'd better move on to related, more official matters. The  
Fen Domar are visiting."  
  
"The Fen Domar hate Borg."  
  
"The Fen Domar hate everyone. Borg are just a little higher on the list. Given  
what the collective has  
done...assimilated a third of the population, harnessed nearly all  
technology...I can't especially blame  
them. I do, however, fear for Seven. It would be better if she remained in your  
quarters until they leave."  
  
"You think they'd actually attempt something on Voyager?" He leaned forward  
until I could practically  
touch the furrows of the tattoo.   
  
"I think a diplomatically rouged face can hide a great many scars."  
  
He stood, nodding. "She won't be happy with the idea, but an order will hold  
her. In the meantime, we  
can arrange a meeting planetside...shift them away from Voyager as often as  
possible. Play diplomatic  
hardball."  
  
"Kiss the hand that feeds you before they strangle you?"   
  
He left me to mull the option, but I had to recognize the wisdom in his  
idea...the Fen Domar were a  
powerful, perhaps too vengeful, race. Their territory was an expanse of rough  
space...and we were right  
in the middle of it. We had to go through, none of us were willing to take long  
routes anymore. I also  
didn't anticipate a smooth passage if they took a disliking to us, and letting  
them know of seven was  
simply out of the question, and entirely too dangerous...for all of us.  
  
And yet she disobeyed us.  
  
Seven was a grown woman. By all means, my logs declared it so, and she ought to  
have known it. I didn't  
ask a great deal of her in those days, but I expected obedience. If not  
obedience, respect for Chakotay.  
Hell, he was her husband. She could've considered that, but, with her usual  
childlike resoluteness, she  
reached her conclusions and made her decisions without either of us.   
  
She went planetside, enlisted assistance in beaming down after Chakotay and the  
away team had left by  
shuttle. The rest is in the logs, and I don't care to go into detail. She and  
the child she carried paid for  
that misjudgment with their lives.   
  
End book.  
  
Never.  
  
The real story always picks up, soars on broken wings, with those left behind.  
  
Death, the last voyage, the longest, and the best. So said a man named Thomas  
Wolfe. For Seven's sake,  
I certainly hope so. For Chakotay's sake, I pray so. They were both lost to us  
that day.  
  
He left, left Voyager, left me, left B'Elanna, left the Maquis rank bar on his  
desk and a decades worth of  
duty for Tom Paris to pick up in his place. I'd like to say I understood. How  
can I? I don't run from  
grief. I don't consider the staying a strength. I simply can't run. He could.  
There's no gray-scale of  
understanding between humans on issues such as grief and death. We each deal in  
our own way.  
  
Perhaps he sought just that, solitude, distance. For three years, we supposed  
he had found it.  
  
Chakotay came home, older, less alive. Just as with his departure, he didn't  
bother to mark the occasion  
with a hailing, just steered the battered little shuttle back into shuttlebay  
during routine cargo loading  
and strode right back into the ready room, sitting down as if he'd never left.  
  
I was startled, certainly, and though security had given warning, if not halted  
him, I found myself faintly  
amazed by the face to face contact. God, he looked tired, and old...old  
war-horse, that's the term Torres  
would use. At the time, there were no terms, simply a hand grasp and whisper.  
"Three years, Chakotay."  
  
"I realized that it's time to put Seven to rest." His eyes darkened, lost in  
distances I didn't even attempt  
to travail. "Her stasis pod, I assume it's still kept up?" At my nod, a faint  
smile rose. "I want a ceremony.  
A Starfleet one, and you at it's head. She idolized you, in her way...it was  
only a sign of her maturation  
that things eventually fell as they did between you. She struggled so hard...I  
think the marriage was  
more than a commitment to Seven. She wanted proof that she was needed, desired.  
I probably failed to  
live up to her high expectations of marital bliss, and that only made her more  
determined to heal the  
damage. She was a good wife. I believe she would have been a good mother. She  
had enough love to  
give...that she needed to give someone. After she was gone...it's been a long  
while since I've cared about  
anything beyond that loss. Pain is a bitter, bitter aloe, Kathryn. Guard  
yourself in the future. It makes you  
do incomprehensible things..."  
  
"I won't ask you what you've done, for I know well enough what they did to you.  
I just ask you to stay,  
Chakotay. This ship needs you. I need you. And we all need you to keep Seven  
with us, if only in  
memory."  
  
His smile was pained, quirky. "I've nowhere else to go, Kathryn. Voyager is  
home. Seven would want me  
here."   
  
"I can't give you your position back. Tom earned his place. Helm, however..."  
  
"I was one of the best pilots in the Alpha Quadrant." The tones approached  
humorous. "Of course, that  
was the Alpha Quadrant."  
  
"That's where we're headed." What to say? I wanted to throw myself into his  
arms...did he realize what  
the years had done to us all? I supposed not. Chakotay was back, but there was  
a distance, a reserve, an  
almost detached air. He kept his sanctum, and his word, and stayed.  
  
We made it home.  
  
He had a Starfleet ceremony, and I was at the head of it.   
  
And somehow, if I can change it all...the honor doesn't mean a damned thing.  
  
*  
From A Survivor- Adrienne Rich  
  
The pact that we made was the ordinary pact  
Of men and women in those days  
I don't know who we thought we were  
That our personalities  
Could resist the failures of the race  
Lucky or unlucky, we didn't know  
The race had failures of that order  
And that we were going to share them  
Like everybody else, we thought of ourselves as special  
Your body is as vivid to me  
As it ever was, evenmore  
Since my feeling for it is clearer  
I know what it could do and could not do  
It is no longer  
The body of a god  
Or anything with power over my life...  
...and you are wastefully dead  
Who might have made the leap  
We talked, too late, of making  
Which I live now  
Not as a leap  
But a succession of brief, amazing movements  
Each one making possible the next 


End file.
